Sunday, July 27, 2014

I know it is hard to believe it when you look at me now, but I was not always the bangin' biddy you see typing before you. As a struggling baby biddy, I left little to be desired by my fellow peers. To be honest, no one even cared to look my way. Many who graduated from high school in my grade do not even know my name and probably could not pick my face out of a line-up. This anonymity bothered me for a long while. Why didn't anyone say I was finger blasted by Rich Corbin in the gym locker room in 7th grade? Why didn't anyone bother to talk about the fact that I had left my pits un-shaved for a whole month in 8th grade?

A ghost biddy was what I was and what I would continue to be.

As I approached my high school years, I came to embrace this inconspicuous existence. I could fart in a whole classroom full of people and no one would even hear it. I could light up a joint in the middle of biology class and no one would even look my way. It was like being fucking Harry Potter with that fucking invisibility cloak shit. I was on top of the world and no one even knew it!

In all seriousness, my loner-status became a part of my identity, not only as as a person, but even as a writer. I took pride in being the one who is on the outside, looking in. I fancied myself a sort of Henry David Thoreau (but, like, a little cuter and less of a fan of ponds or any other fresh-water bodies). Or perhaps I was more like an Emily Dickinson (but with few social skills). I really grew to love being the judge and not the one being judged... that was really working out well for me.

But then, as quickly as you can say "butt crack," things seemed to change for me recently. All of a sudden, people had something to fucking say. All of a sudden, people started to learn my name for crying out loud! I mean, granted, they learned it wrong. They called me the dreaded: "JuliAWnna." Regardless, they were calling me A name and that is where all the trouble began.

The moment people learn your name, you are absolutely screwed. It is hard to talk about "that person with the hair and the face and the teeth." It is much easier to have a conversation about you when they can identify you. In fact, people need to know very little else about you in order to talk shit. Once they have got that down, the slandering can begin. (Some may think I am being facetious and those who think that are ignorantly living in bliss. I envy your stupidity, I really do).

All it takes is for them to know your name in order to concoct an elaborate story about how you are sleeping with this, that and the other thing. Your favorite color? Your birthday? Your favorite Spice Girl? All of that information is irrelevant when people are bored and there is nothing better on television that month.

Dragging someone's professional reputation through the mud is completely necessary when the gallon of Ben & Jerry's is finished, when you have not had any OKCupid dates lately and when Orange is the New Black is on hiatus (fuck Orange is the New Black, by the way).

6th grade Jules would have been absolutely thrilled about this new found fame. 6th grade me could be fake sleeping with fucking EVERYONE for all she cared! Color me slutty, as long as they knew my name, I would have been over the fucking moon.

The sad truth of the matter is, there is no story to tell. In the words of Shannon Beador, "The OC is full of secrets but I have nothing to hide." (Instead of the OC, you can insert "Westchester," of course). But actually, my life is as boring, action-less and sex-less as an old granny (and I am not talking about the grannies in the nursing homes... because those old biddies are getting some... more than just some, in fact). But, you know, by all means, talk shit about the stuff that I am NOT doing. Say what you want about my imaginary slutty life. Keep talkin', bitches, you're making this biddy famous.

But do me a small favor? My name is Julianna... it's not fucking JuliAWnna for the love of everything holy.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

I am quite of ashamed and disgusted with myself. It has been nearly a month since my last post and here I have the absolute nerve to even show my face in the biddy universe again. I am asking, nay, begging for your forgiveness. I humbly ask that you allow me to keep my title as queen of the Biddyverse.

The truth of the matter is, I have a very valid excuse as to why I have not been doing my usual ranting and bitching over the interwebs. In addition, if it helps matters, I still have been keeping up my badmouthing and biddy queen duties outside of the cyber world (ya know, like, the real world). Do not get it twisted though, I am as real, raw and relentless as ever.

Biddy block has been a big issue for me this past month. It is a real condition that affects over eighty percent of the biddy population. Maya Angelou had it and I even read that Ernest Hemingway battled it in a big way (along with, ya know, impotency and just general chauvinistic douchebaggery). It is an ailment that disables biddies in all walks of life from reaching their bitching potential on their respective blogs (or books, for that matter). There are various remedies to this paralyzing plague of epic destruction.

The first remedy: A delicious grapefruit

There is absolutely nothing that can lift your spirits and your vitamin intake like a decadent grapefruit. Juicy, elegant and bold in everything that it does, grapefruits are the ultimate biddy rejuvenator. I had gone weeks without eating this magical fruit and, let me tell you, I paid the piper. They have gone out of season and, sadly, out of my life. It was not until this week when I was given one by one of my loyal biddy minions, that I finally BEGAN to feel like myself again. I am finally starting to feel alive and free. The grapefruit shampoo was just not enough to get me through this dark time of grapefruit off-season.

The second remedy: the whole first season of Buckwild

This may sound arbitrary and excessive and well, it is. However, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I binge-watched the whole first season of Buckwild, just to get my blood pumping and lady juices flowing (that sounds disgusting...and awesome). Young Americans with nothing but a bag of potato chips and a shit ton of tarp to do slip-and-slide on will make you see Jesus (...or at least kill a lot of time on a Saturday).

The third remedy: self-loathing

So, after you finish the entire season of Buckwild, you will be faced with the inevitable feeling of self-loathing because... you just watched an entire fucking season of Buckwild. This wave of self-loathing is one far worse than any gallon of ice cream can handle. This is a job that only a biddy blog can fulfill. It is the only place where you can make sense of the atrocity that you just committed...the absolute only way. (Plus you are probably grieving the loss of the late cast member Shain).

The fourth (and final remedy): listen to Party in the USA at least twenty times on repeat.

This final step is crucial. Miley just has a way of reminding us of what is important in life. She is my friend, my teacher, my guide and my pet.

As you can all see, I am trying to wipe this rust off of my biddy crown and get things back on track. Please forgive me for my sins.